He sat on the peeling hood of the car, breathing the frigid air that stung if he took too much of it in. The fog had oozed in about 40 minutes ago, dampening sight and sound. It made him nervous. Every so often, green light flashed faintly on the ground, telling him the stoplight had changed again, and he was methodically counting the flashes of color. Thirty. The counting kept his mind off the painful numbness, a poetic and idiotic oxymoron, he decided, biting its way through his fingers. Thirty one.